Identity
by TheNextOfKin
Summary: Dean Winchester was always comfortable with the guy he thought he was. Then, he met someone who made him questions things about himself he'd thought he'd always known. Warning: Slash (m/m), pairing: Dean/Aaron (may also include Dean/Sam &-or Dean/Cas)-Don't like, Don't read...


It was odd, really, but Dean just couldn't get the thought out of his head. It wasn't something Dean would normally think about, in fact anybody who had ever known Dean would have been shocked at what he was fixated on. Dean tried clearing his head. He'd thrown himself into the usually mind-numbing task of maintaining their weapons. When polishing the guns and sharpening the knives didn't help, he decided to give his baby some TLC, tender loving care. Even though taking care of the Impala was the one thing he'd always counted on to calm him when his heart was aching and his mind racing, he was still thinking about it. So, in a final ditch attempt at clearing his head of the unwanted thought, Dean went to a bar to get drunk and flirt with women. But, this time even that failed to help. Although the bar had had its share of gorgeous, but desperate, women, he just couldn't seem to get in the game tonight because of those damned thoughts floating around and around in his head. He went home, back to the Men of Letters secret headquarters, only slightly tipsy and still thinking about Aaron.

Sam had fallen asleep at the table in the Letters' library by the time Dean got in and the older Winchester thanked his lucky stars, the God he was pretty sure had abandoned them, and Cas, who had stopped answering their prayers, that he didn't have to talk to Sam tonight and pretend that everything was right in Whoville. Dean had so many questions jostling around in his head that he didn't need to deal with Sam's as well. Sam had been watching Dean like a hawk since they'd left Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania, which Dean supposed was about the time his adrenaline from looking for why a rabbi got barbequed, facing a fucking humongous golem, and fighting the Thule necromancer-Nazi-bastards had receded enough for Dean to actually think anything other than _Protect Sammy! _and _Kill the evil sons-of-a-bitches! _

As they had left for Lebanon, Kansas, Dean had cranked the tunes loud and retreated to his own little world inside the awesome sounds of Zeppelin. In and of itself that wasn't odd – Dean always got lost in his music. No, what was odd, what Dean figured had tipped Sam off that something was up with his older brother was that Dean didn't sing along, not even to his favorite verses. Dean had been too busy sorting out his thoughts. Dean had made a habit over the years of taking any thought that popped into his head that he didn't like and locking it away in a metaphorical vault in his head where he never needed to think it again. The vault still held guilt over their dad's death, guilt over breaking in Hell and becoming the demonic sadist that he had been down there, the pain of losing Lisa and Ben, sorrow and guilt for continually dragging Sammy back into this life, sadness for his Amazon daughter who never even had a chance, guilt over Adam being locked in Lucifer's cage for eternity, heartbreak and guilt over abandoning his friend Benny in his time of need, guilt over leaving Cas in Purgatory, and so many other things that hurt too much to think about.

Dean had tried shoving the unwanted thoughts of Aaron into that vault as well, but those damn thoughts were so stubborn they just refused to be repressed! So, now here Dean was, tiptoeing past his slumbering brother so as to avoid waking him and having to face one of Sam's sappy, touchy-feely, chick-flick conversations, which would inevitably end with Dean spilling his guts out about just exactly what going on in his tipsy little mind at one glance from Sam's damn puppy-dog eyes.

Dean was pretty sure he'd rather have his left nut ripped off by Aaron's golem than have to reveal these thoughts to Sammy, his little brother who, he knew, still looked up to him despite his height and even after all they'd been through and all the douche moves Dean had pulled. How could Dean tell his baby brother that he thought that maybe he might be gay or something? How could he tell the one person who'd known him his whole life that he might not be who they had both always thought he was? It wasn't like he could just say "Hey, Sam, remember how I told you that Aaron fake-flirted with me to throw me off his scent when he was tailing me? Yeah, well, I was kinda disappointed when I found out it had been an act. So, I, uh, may be like gay for him or something. Think he swings that way? – 'Cause I'd really like to find out if I do." Or could he? No, Dean didn't think he could.

Dean knew Sam wouldn't exactly mind the gay/bi/whatever thing. After all, Sam had gone to college in California, where they were all liberal and open-minded and shit. No, Sam would probably be ridiculously supportive. And, in a way that scared Dean more than the prospect of Sammy hating him. Dean didn't think he'd survive it if Sam started treating him like he was fragile and in need of support or some shit like that just because he was having a little sexual identity crisis. So, for now he'd keep it to himself.

As Dean entered the Men of Letters' shower-room, turned one shower cubicle's water on, stripped himself of his bar-scented clothes, stepped into the steamy spray, and took himself in hand to the images of Aaron his mind conjured up, Dean knew he couldn't keep this secret to himself forever. – No, if he ever wanted to be 100% sure he swung that way, he'd have to give it a go with a guy. And, well, in order for him to do it with a dude, Dean was fairly certain that dude would have to know that Dean was, well, bi-curious or something. But, instead of following that train of thought, Dean closed his eyes and enjoyed the hot rhythmic beat of water on his hunched shoulders, the cool press of tile against his forehead, and the rough, almost punishing friction of his hand as he worked himself towards an unsatisfying completion.


End file.
